Addictive Personality
by Brunette
Summary: Spot, this has got to quit. You're spookin' me.


_Author's Note: So I thought it was about time I did another Spot story, even if it is just a one-shot. I'm actually crazy-proud of this. I've never really done second-person POV before, so I thought I'd give it a shot, and I think it works out nicely -- especially by the end of the story. I will say, this is strange. But I like it. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, characters in this story borrowed from the Disney musical, _Newsies.

**NML Fanfic Awards: 3rd Place, "Best Spot Story" (2007)**

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**Add_i_ctive Personality.  
**

Spot Conlon's been looking bad lately.

And not even bad in a good way. Bad in the sort of way that makes you wonder if he's sick, or if he's sleeping enough. A desperate kind of bad. A pitiful kind of bad. The bad that scares you, when you look in his cloudy eyes and stare at the dark, ugly bags under them. The bad you'd ask him about, if he was anybody else.

But he's Spot Conlon.

You don't ask Spot Conlon how he's feeling; you're supposed to already know. Spot Conlon's feeling fine, feeling tough, feeling on top of the world. Spot Conlon's feeling like he might just soak you if you ask a dumbass question like that again. What, like he's looking bad? Spot Conlon looks _bad_, alright. The kind of bad that will hurt you, make you bleed. The kind of bad you're secretly afraid of. The kind of bad you want to be.

But you don't want to look as bad as he does right now. You want to look like you've slept, like you've ate, like your mind's all there. Oh, he's scaring you, alright, with his badness. But for different reasons this time. In a strange kind of way, you're scared _for_ him moreso than _of_ him. You're wondering if other people are seeing it, but you're afraid to ask. You see their eyes sometimes, when he trudges by, but they're just as scared as you are to actually say something about it, even to one another. You want to believe somewhere that you're the only one who notices it, so that maybe, you're just dreaming it up. A part of you doesn't even want to admit it to yourself; an even bigger part doesn't want to admit it to other people.

So you start sneaking around, following him. You crouch behind shadows in alleyways and try to swat away the rats that chew on your shoes. You tell yourself there's just something -- just some small thing -- he's into, and once he's out of it, he'll be back to being Spot Conlon. But he just goes around like he used to; he walks around the same places and might talk to the same people. It's like he's acting the same, but he's different. It's in his eyes. In his pitted, tired, eyes, he looks dead. He looks like a corpse. He makes you shiver when you stare at him.

You know it has to be something ...

You see him smoking more, and you see him hanging around people less. He gambles, but he doesn't care; he laughs, but he doesn't mean it. Sometimes he just sits on the docks, all by himself, fiddling with his key. He twists it and twirls it and looks at it sometimes, but mostly he just stares out at the water. Sometimes you sit down beside him; just sit in the silence and hope he'll say something to you. You want to ask him if he's okay, if he has a cold or something, but you just can't. You think that maybe by sitting there, by being there with him, that he might get better. But he won't even look at you.

When you close your eyes to go to sleep, he's still awake. He lays there, and pretends, but his mind is still humming with consciousness. You know he stays awake all night; you can feel it. You know he hasn't slept in weeks. You think maybe, if he would just rest, he could get better. You also think, somewhere in the back of your mind, that he can't. That he's going to die like this, and pretty soon.

You follow him even more closely, now. You're frantic. You're frightened. You don't buy papers anymore. You don't eat and you don't sleep. You're hungry and tired but you know, you just _know_ that if you let him go a second without your watch, that he'll be dead. You're done sitting at his side in silence. You start talking to him, you start chiding him, you start yelling at him. You know he could beat the hell out of you, but you don't care. You've got to get him to listen, somehow.

Everybody else just stares, jaws hanging open. They can't believe what you're doing, what you're saying to him. They probably can't believe he hasn't taken a swing at you, either. You go with him to Manhattan, to play cards with Racetrack and Jack and Skittery. You see the way they stare at him, the worry in their eyes, and you try to show him what you're seeing. You tell him they're all scared for him, that they all think he's looking bad. And you're shocked when they don't agree with you. You're shocked when they lie through their strained smiles and nervous eyes and tell him he looks alright -- maybe a little sick, but alright.

You grab Jack by the collar and tell him to be a friend, to save him. You yell, "For the love of God, Cowboy, Spot's dyin' like this!"

He looks at you strangely, his dark eyes all a mess of confusion. And he asks you, very quietly, "What did you just say?"

You think he must be losing his mind. "Look at him! Don't you get it? Don't you see it? Spot Conlon looks like death itself!"

He grabs the sides of your face, and he just stares into your eyes. He stares at you for a really long time, like he doesn't even believe you. "Spot," he whispers, finally looking at him, and you're just so goddamn glad he's taking the time to try. "Maybe you should cut back on them cigarettes."

Cigarettes? Is he nuts? There are worse things going on with Spot Conlon than cigarettes, but Racetrack is looking now, and nodding. "Spot, this has got to quit. You're spookin' me."

You nod, you smile, a few tears even make it passed your eyelashes. Finally, somebody wants to make him okay. Finally, someone else sees it.

"This thing you're doin', this shit you're gettin' into -- it's gotta stop."

You're confused now. You wonder how they know, and you want to know, too. You followed Spot all this time, and you don't really know what it is they're talking about.

"I mean, hell, you talk about yourself like you're somebody else or somethin'."

You blink. You stare. Spot Conlon has hardly said a word to you, but he's been talking to them? About himself?

"I see you on the docks," Racetrack whispers, looking pale, "I see you out there talkin', and nobody's there."

But you're there. You were there every time. You sat with him and yelled at him, and he was the one who never said anything ...

"Maybe you should try and rest up."

Spot Conlon doesn't sleep, and you let them know. They shake their heads and sigh.

"You just ain't been lookin' very good."

You agree. Spot Conlon has seen better days.

**E_n_d.**


End file.
